The truth lies,
hidden under curling lips,
hurling invectives.
It squats hooded
beneath blinking eyes,
that shift like
a transient wandering
aimlessly under your
inquisitive glance.
Restless fingers
expound the air,
or simply grip
each other
in sweaty palms.
A crimson blush
quickly graces
the cheeks of their
"It wasn't me!" faces
betraying the true
colors of their
addiction to fiction
They hunch forward
in gargoyle poses,
unable to relax
in the turmoil
of their untruth.
Liars paint a portrait
of forgery on the canvas
of their stretched flesh,
using pigments of their
imagination to paint
a prettier picture.
Honorable mention
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